SURVEY LIFE AFTER CHRISTMAS AT HOME, ABROAD

I moseyed on down to the Troll Bridge one recent, sunny, December day. Hadn't been down there much since the aborted Crow Convention. Too cold. However, there were a few old crows mulling around as if they didn't know which way to go or what to do since their Sycamore Convention Centers have been cut down and no clear-cut agenda had been set for next year.

I suspect, even with their twenty-twenty vision, they've failed to notice that there are new shoots coming up around some stumps and that in years to come, there may be a new Center. I don't know whether their bird brains are philosophical enough to take in the concept that life is on-going new shoots sprouting from old stumps.

I carefully chose an apple to eat along the way not too big, not too little, but just right to last all the way there with nothing but the core left when I reached the bridge. I planned to throw the core on the creek-bank nook, back under the bridge where I think the Troll lives. Poor fellow, he probably hasn't had any fresh fruit since the hanging elderberries last fall.

I don't consider this core throwing an ace of littering, for if the Troll doesn't eat it, there are countless creek-bank creatures that will. I saw rabbit, muskrat, and 'possum tracks in the bordering mud. Even if it isn't eaten I have the satisfying feeling that I'm following in the steps of Johnny Appleseed. Maybe an apple sapling will come up in the protected area where mowers can't reach it. It will twist around a little to get at the sunlight, and those who see its valiant effort to survive will let it alone. Lo, some years from now there will be the tree, shedding blossoms on the springtime bridge floor. I'll revert to calling it the Japanese bridge then. In autumn, one can sit on the bridge, dangle his legs over the water and eat a candy apple while the redwing blackbirds and meadowlarks serenade and the muskrat, coming or going, makes a silver V in his wake.

I looked long up and down stream for the local muskrat. Thought I might see him sunning on a log, but no muskrat. I saw a round hole in the bank just above the water line which I recognized as his front door. Back somewhere in the tunnel, slanted upward so as to get out of flood-time backwaters, he is probably snoozing away, dreaming of cattail and bulrush root stocks.

I took a census of the visible squirrels' nests in the park that same day. There are 10, all in oak trees. Why? Do the squirrels sense the sturdiness of oaks? Or are the leaves more plentiful at nest building time? Two or three of the leaf nests are big as bushel baskets; others are skimpy. I don't know whether the skimpy ones have been bedraggled by weather or if skimpy squirrels built them.

Squirrel nests aren't like bird nests, open at the tops. The big bulky looking things are layers and layers of leaves and twigs anchored in the crotch of a tall tree. When finished, the squirrel burrows a hole into the center of the glob of leaves and thus has a snug, walled, floored, ceilinged home. Sounds fairly cozy but I imagine the cozier ones are those in the cavity of some old tree. At least they're out of the wind.

It is a bit risky walking erratically around in the park gazing up at squirrel nests, looking for tracks or examining new growth of lichens. This last appears to be as if you're talking to a tree. A strolling police car slowed down and took a long look at me. I immediately brought my binoculars into play so I'd look somewhat official. I think I need some kind of cellophane enclosed identification tag pinned importantly on my coat lapel. It could say, "Civilian Squirrel Census Taker" or "Muskrat Observer for the Wildlife Club." The cellophane enclosing my picture and logo and the clasp should cancel any appearance of vagrancy.

The park is a bit bleak now, although I came across bits of glitter and tinsel where someone must have opened a Christmas present. The song birds are silent. The light posts stand like Druids of old who have lost their limbs. The flags whip in a stiff breeze. A lone rabbit jumps out of the hedgerow.

Satisfied with my census, I scrape my feet at the back door, turn the old familiar knob and come into my snug shelter which still smells of spicy cookies and warm cranberry tea. I feel as snug as the squirrel in his nest and the muskrat in his hole. And, unlike the old, befuddled crows, I have a bright, new agenda for the New Year. Clean page. Sharpened pencil.

REJOICE!